Without You There Is No Me
by nevertoolatetoclearyourcanvas
Summary: After seven days, nine hours, thirty-three minutes and fifty-nine seconds, it finally, finally hits her.


_Rated for mature language, mentions of suicide, and ignorant comments about suicide and depression. I started writing this after BSS Part 2, and wrote like 2,000 words and just kind of dropped it. I finally decided to finish it because it was bothering me tonight. It strays from canon. Reviews would be wonderful and I'm here for anyone who would like to talk._

_The title is from The Boy Who Could Fly by Pierce The Veil._

_Word Count: 3,977_

* * *

It's argued that the worst thing about not-crying is the pain that throbs right in the frontal lobe. The dull beat that can suck the life out of anyone, no matter their strength or determination. The pain alone can kill you, and Maya sort of figures that it wouldn't be _that_ bad if death took her too. It would be bad, sure, the school and her family and friends having to mourn again over another loss. It would be selfish of her, because everyone wants answers and if she died there would just be more questions (did she do it for attention, did he do it for attention, did she do it because she loved him, did he do it because he loved her _because obviously not, Cam, if you loved me you wouldn't have done it_- to name a few). It would be _stupid_, according to almost half the students who don't _understand_.

She was (_is_) one of those students, but she _could have _understood.

If he just _let_ her.

It's been three days and four hours (sixteen minutes and eight seconds, nine seconds, ten seconds...) since she found out. Three days and three hours and fifty-nine minutes since it hit her that he was gone, that he was never coming back, that he killed _himself_- that he did this to _himself_. It's been three days or four days (and the fact that nobody knows is what hurts the most) since he's done it and she's seen seven different therapists (because the first six sucked and didn't understand and the seventh one looked like who Cam could have become) and she's heard the words "we all deal with things differently, Maya" at least twice by each of them, and once over the speakers the minute before it finally hit her.

All of these statistics only weigh more on her brain; right in the back, tucked quietly under the pile of shit that stinks of _Cam is dead and is never coming back_.

She's not going to cry because it's not worth it. She's not going to let herself be sad about it. She's going to be strong, because he never was. She's going to be strong because she was the strong one in their god damn relationship. She's going to be okay, because she has to be, because no one expects her to be, because she was okay before he fucking killed himself and she's going to be okay after it. She's going to be okay, because she owes it to Cam, and she owes it to herself.

She's sitting in the office of counselor number eight, faceless as of now, but she's staring at the blank walls of the same room she's been staring at for three days and four hours (and seventeen minutes and twelve seconds), the one with the degrees on the wall, as if that's supposed to be fucking significant. As if getting degrees is supposed to be important in life when Campbell didn't even get a _chance_. When Cam's life has been ripped away from him _raw_ by a disease that nobody will take a second and actually help her _understand_.

She yawns when she could be crying but if she were honest (which she isn't; she doesn't remember the last time she's been honest, but she figures it was two days and twenty three hours ago when she made that pathetic mess of a speech in front of the people with the _audacity_ to show up when they didn't even know him like she did) she would admit she hasn't slept in days. She stays up because he stayed up. The insomnia that plagues her is his fault. It's slowly killing her, not knowing when he died, what set him off, what his last words were, how long he's been fucking feeling this way. And no one will _tell_ her.

The door opens and Dallas walks through without the kick in his step and the stupid cocky annoying-as-fuck smirk he usually wears. He sits down on the other side of the desk. "Hey Maya."

She's fifteen parts confused and ten parts annoyed, but she's seventy-five parts relieved and grateful because this is the first non-counselor, non-family-member, non-Mr. Simpson human being she's seen in twenty-seven hours and she needs peer-interaction (even if it _is_ Mike Dallas).

"You look exhausted," he leans back in the chair and puts his feet on the desk and Maya can't decide if it's annoying or comforting. She's leaning towards comforting.

She takes a shaky breath, the one she's been trying to steady since this started and hisses at herself. She doesn't have the energy to lie and the bags under her eyes are giving it away but she doesn't have the energy to do much of anything anymore, so she nods and mumbles "I am," despite the part of her that's _aching_ to lie.

Dallas chuckles. It's half-hearted and broken. "Me too."

"Are you here to talk about something?" Maya looks down at her fingers and they start to tremble and the chill is quickly racing up her arms and she's not going to break down. Not now. Not when she's been holding it together with the pulse in her frontal lobe for three days and four hours and twenty-one minutes and forty-seven seconds and she's not going to crack when she's sitting in front of Mike Dallas, who Campbell Saunders trusted more than anyone. "Because I'm honestly all talked-out."

"We don't have to talk. I've been talking a lot lately."

"Good."

They sit in silence, and it's nice, because Maya's been sitting in silence a lot lately, but it's been alone and she really needs someone who is comfortable being quiet.

Despite herself she almost starts conversation; because it's been so long since she hasn't had to say anything to anyone she's been in the same room with for more than half a minute. The chills don't go away and she can't stop tapping her foot like she's supposed to be expecting something. She's expecting to wake up or to hear that Cam's alive or to be told that "It's okay to cry, Maya," _again_ or that she's being inappropriate by not feeling sorry for herself or that "Maya, you're so _strong_, Maya."

"There's also this thing," Dallas mumbles. It's out of character and she wants everyone to be the same as they were before Cam did this to himself, when Dallas was a class-A douche bag with an inferiority complex that could kill and an ego that could take up the entire school. Maya huffs at how everyone is suddenly changing and it's like she's the only one with their head screwed on _right_.

"What?"

"As soon as um... As soon as his _parents_ come back they're gonna start planning a pre-funeral-" (his voice cracks on the word and she might end up puking if this conversation has to go on much longer) "memorial. It's not gonna be stupid like the vigil, or anything. Only people close to him are going to be there. It's gonna be at an actual church. They were going to do it in the hockey rink on the bleachers like they do everything else, but uh... you probably know as well as I do that he-"

"He _hated_ hockey." She finishes blankly and as an afterthought an echo in her brain reminds her that he hated hockey _past tense_, and she remembers the first time she told him she hated it and he said _me too_. She remembers when he broke his arm and it was excused because he's_ not some loser who tries to hurt himself_ and when she asked him what would happen when it healed and he would have to go back to hockey- and this, _this_ is what happened. The shaking increases and she covers her hands up with the sleeves of her shirt like they're afraid of anyone seeing them like this, and she picks her things up from the ground just so she has something to do with them.

"His parents should be coming back in a few hours, though, so. You should come."

Maya nods and Dallas leaves and pats her shoulder but she's seriously not in the mood for anyone to touch her. She nods when he's gone and the door is shut quietly with a click, like the noise in her head needn't be interrupted by the sound of a slam. She nods and she stares at the bag on her lap and the cuffs of her sweater hiding her shaking fingers and hums a non-tune and she still doesn't cry. She nods even though she knows she's not going to the memorial.

* * *

It's been five days, seven hours, forty-six minutes, and twenty-eight seconds since she found out. She has four text messages from Katie, two from Tori, three from Tristan, a missed call from each of them, and she's still not going to the memorial service. She refuses to hear that she _can't keep holding in her emotions_ as if she has any emotions to hold in, and that she's being unhealthy and inappropriate and insensitive and selfish. She refuses to hear Katie tell her that he was _sick _and that he was _really sick_ and that she doesn't understand because she _knows_ she doesn't understand and nobody is _helping_ her understand.

She doesn't ever want to talk to Dallas again because she doesn't want to hear about Cam anymore, and she doesn't hear about pre-funeral memorials anymore, and she doesn't want to hear about hockey anymore. She doesn't want to hear about him anymore because he's not there. It's like talking behind his back, but he'll never get to know. He'll never get the chance.

_Why should they get to talk about how great he was when they should have told him before?_

She's not sure about this "after-life" stuff, because she's not a Baker and she wasn't raised with a firm belief in anything like that, and she's dealt with a lot of disease and over-doses but she hasn't been this close to somebody who died since she was six, so she isn't sure if he's supposed to be contacting her or something, or if he's looking over her with angel wings, or if he's sitting on her bed cross-legged and smiling the way he would be if he were still _here_.

She stares at the ceiling of her room, and she's ready for it to be dark, because she's ready to sleep, but she knows that she won't. Her knees knock together and she plays with her phone, and she's sad.

She's _sad_.

Sure, she was sad before and she's been sad for five days but she's been sad over nothing, it felt like. There was just a void, there, and anger, like it was all his fault- which it was, it _is_—but it was like being mad at him would make him feel bad enough to just _come back_. She's heard "it's okay to be sad, Maya" alongside all of the other clichés a billion times each, but she knew it wasn't okay to be sad.

What if being sad made _her_ sick? She doesn't know how this thing fucking works, okay? She knows it's not something you can catch, but what if she gets so sad that she can't be happy again? What if she gets so sad she goes to that place, the one that everyone talks about, the place Cam was when he did it? She remembers when Cam told her that _he_ was sad, and what she said- fuck- she told him to _be happy_. She doesn't want to go there. She can't, because he was the sad one, not her. She's the strong one. Like always.

So she's not going to be sad, anymore (decided with a switch, because it's something she's going to convince herself that she can toggle it, no matter how misinformed that is). She won't be sad anymore. She refuses to be sad anymore- she's going to be okay, even if Cam isn't (_because_ Cam isn't).

She doesn't spend much time thinking about it because _I Believe In A Thing Called Love_ starts on her phone and she's about to hang it up because she can't bear to listen to the sound (and if it's Katie again she's going to absolutely punch something) but the contact name is Ziggory (because Tori stole her phone and fucked up all her contacts a while back), who would under no circumstances be at the memorial, so she picks it up.

"I'm outside," She hears, when she presses the phone against her ear.

"You're _what_?"

"Your house, Maya." A deep breath. "I'm outside."

He hangs up and she sits stunned for a moment, too confused to move. Too afraid, because she doesn't want to talk about Cam and she doesn't want to talk about anything to anyone. She doesn't want to talk to Zig if he's just going to be sad like he was earlier, and because she's currently totally refusing to be sad right now, and that would mess it all up, especially if he chastises her again. She gets up, she swears it's just so she can do something with her body that isn't moping around.

When she opens the door, Zig marches in almost violently, and sits down on her couch (where Cam slept seven days and seventeen hours ago, but she ignores it because she's not sad, remember?). She shuts the door again and sits on the windowsill with her knees pulled up to her chest and her head against the wall. He relocates next to her so they're facing each other, and says, "I need to talk to you."

She forces herself not to roll her eyes and kick him out, and just replies "no."

"It's important, Maya." He looks down at his fingers and they're twitching as much as hers.

"I'm not in the mood to talk about Cam right now, Zig."

"Well, you're going to have to."

She's shocked because nobody's told her no in ages. Everyone's said "it's okay, you can talk about it when you're ready" and even though she's glad there's finally someone who's not taking pity on her, she still doesn't want to talk about him.

He starts before she's ready to listen.

"It's my fault he's gone. Everyone says that he was sick and that he was going to crack at some point if he didn't get any help. They say that it's nobody's fault and it's normal to feel guilt but _I did it_. I'm the reason. And basically it sucks. And you deserve to know." He looks down and he's shaking harder and hiding his hands in the sleeves of his shirt and her motherly instincts take over.

"Do you want some tea or something?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

She moves off the windowsill and rests her hand on the wall for balance, "I am, but you're shaking. Do you want tea?"

"I don't deserve tea."

"Everyone deserves tea."

He ignores her because she's stubborn and she's not going to leave him alone until he gives her something to listen to, because he's only known her for eight months but if there's one thing he knows about Maya Matlin is that she's a stubborn stick-to-it little piece of shit and he loves her for it. "Why aren't you mad at me?"

She rolls her eyes, "You already told me all of this. It's not your fault, Zig."

"Are you kidding me?" He stands up and faces her. "I'm basically the reason your boyfriend killed himself. Do you have any emotions about this?"

She lets her feet swing off the ledge and her nails start to pick at the cushion she's sitting on. "No. You aren't the reason. He killed _himself. _There was nothing-"

"I called him a psycho." _No_, she's thinking. "I told him that he was going to ruin your life. I told him to get out of your life forever, Maya. Forever." _Shut up_. "I tell him to get out of your life forever and somehow it's not my fault that he does? I kissed you behind his back and I should have stopped, I know I should have stopped flirting with you, Maya, but I lost Tori and Tristan and you were the only person who didn't hate me, and I pushed him so far that he snapped." _Stop_. "And I blamed him for everything and then what I said to him was probably the last thing anyone ever said to him and it's _not my fault_?" He's angry and shaking and he's gripping the wall like it's the only thing he has, and Maya thinks that maybe it is.

"It was going to happen if he didn't get help, Zig." And behind the disgust he hopes she's in denial.

He punches the wall, then, right next to her head and other hand is shaking with the intensity so strong she can barely see it. "Don't you get it, Maya? If I never said that stuff to him, if I never made him so paranoid and jealous, and if I never told him to get out of your life, he would have gotten the help. I made his life a living hell." She blinks and he moves closer and their faces are so close she could probably kiss him but he just screams in her face, "_It's my fault! How don't you fucking hate me?_"

She's quaking but she says, "You don't know he would have gotten help. He's been feeling this way for a while and he didn't do anything."

He pushes off the wall and paces around the room. "Mr. Simpson booked a meeting with the school counselor after his suspension was over. She could have helped him."

Maya is silent, a little stunned, focusing on the bits of dry paint that are falling onto her shoulder and the clock in the back of her head that's rounding five days and seven hours and fifty-five minutes since they told her Cam was dead. She traces back six days ago when she got a text message that chipped away at her heart for nineteen hours until they told her. She imagines Cam on the front steps and Zig passes him and they start to fight, because Cam's big on instigating and Zig honestly never was.

"You didn't do it on purpose, though. Right?"

He looks shocked. "Of course not."

"Then it's fine." She brushes the paint chips off her shoulder casually, and he gives her that look that he gave her right before the vigil when she laughed at him, where he looks like he's about to cry, but if he does she thinks she's going to have to kick him out. "Is that it? Do you want some tea now?"

Zig nods but he doesn't take his eyes off the floor and he looks more anxious than she's ever seen him. She ignores the fire that starts in her fingertips and courses through her entire body, the fire of anger she holds, begging to unleash, because she suddenly needs to scream like she's never screamed before, but she holds it in, right next to the tears she refuses to cry.

In the little animation inside her brain, the one she imagines sometimes, with little people that dance along to her cello, she imagines that the tears put out the fire and they're both gone like she wants them to be. Imagining them both disappear does wonders for her, though, like a weight has been lifted.

Or maybe she's just fooling herself.

* * *

After seven days, nine hours, thirty-three minutes and fifty-nine seconds, it finally hits her.

Maya's at her audition, gloriously rescheduled, on a stage where she's meant to be, where the acoustics are to die for and the seats are nearly empty, except for the judges, and a few family members of the other people auditioning. It was a god-send for them to reschedule, as one of the most prestigious music schools in the country, she figured it would be impossible.

The ticking still rolls on at the back of her head but it's dulled, overpowered by the pre-show jitters she gets sometimes. Her dad rubs circles on her back, and Tori's playing with her hair, and her mom is patting her knee and reminding her about how much she loves her. Katie's at a distance for the first time in ages and it almost feels abnormal, because Katie's been pretty much the biggest pain in the ass about Cam for a week, but she's grateful.

The judge calls for Maya Matlin and she stands up, cello in one hand, bow in the other, little dancers in the back of her mind ready to jig and jive and she breathes out through her nose slowly before walking off.

"Keep your head up," Tori calls from behind her.

Even quieter, almost a mumble, she hears Katie, "and your stick on the ice."

A little piece of Maya breaks, then, because that was un-called for, but _no, no, not now, she can't break now._

She walks on, determined, marching, and the judges are stone-faced and terrifying, and the bow is slippery in her fingers when she sits down in the chair provided, and Katie's words ring in the back of her head, right next to the tiny dancers and the whisper of _seven days, nine hours, thirty-one minutes and eleven seconds, twelve seconds, thirteen seconds, fourteen seconds…_

"Whenever you're ready," a judge-woman says, and Maya smiles, exhilarated, because that's what she's been waiting for, _those words_, like a sign that everything will be okay, and she's performing for the school of her dreams.

She's confident because she composed this song herself, and she wants the judges to notice her and remember her, and accept her and love her. She's happy because this is what she wants, what she's always wanted, to be a composer and a cellist and a musician, because it's what she's good at, it's the only thing she's good at. She's shaking a little bit because she's overwhelmed, but she's been taught never to stop in the middle of a song (ahem Chicken Cutlet).

At seven days, nine hours, thirty-three minutes and forty-six seconds, she notices a jingle. It's soft, and even with the acoustics, there's no way the judges would be able to hear it, but she does, and she feels the weight of it as her song comes to a close. Around her wrist is a charm bracelet with a single charm.

At fifty-one seconds she realizes she only has one charm.

At fifty-two seconds she realizes she's never going to get another one.

At fifty-three, she doesn't want one from anyone else but him.

At fifty-four, she hates him for leaving her.

At fifty-five, she feels herself breaking as she holds the last note.

Fifty-six, and she hates herself for letting this happen, for not letting herself cry, or accept this.

Fifty-seven, she realizes that a part of her was counting down to when Cam would come back, like this was all fake, suppressing the idea that she was in denial, because sure she knew he was dead, _but he was coming back, right?_

Fifty-eight, with tears in her eyes her mind is racking itself for clues and pieces and ideas and thoughts jumbled up into a deadly ball, rolling around in her brain, crushing everything. She takes her bow off the cello string and she knows she's going to cry but she can't, she won't. She's not going to cry. She's the strong one, remember? A little voice whispers _but the weak one is gone._

After seven days, nine hours, thirty-three minutes and fifty-nine seconds, it finally, finally hits her.


End file.
